


same difference, no rules

by mismatched (miscalculated)



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Angry Kissing, Angry Sex, Arguing, Enemies to Friends, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Lots of Arguing, Love/Hate, M/M, Resolved Sexual Tension, Rivalry, Rough Kissing, Rough Sex, Sexual Tension, but a happy ending for once i guess lmao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:48:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23901109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miscalculated/pseuds/mismatched
Summary: “And you’re a brat,” Jihoon says. “Watch your tone and we won't have to do this again.”They silently consider one another with matching glares. Once again, Chan is close to him, facing Jihoon as Jihoon faces the mirrors. “I told you already,” Chan replies, voice falling lower. “If you want me to shut up, you have to shut me up."-Lee Chan, a veteran (and perpetual) trainee at the entertainment company Jihoon signs to, is the asshole with a big head and a smart mouth. And Jihoon hates him. Truly, honestly hates him. Mostly.
Relationships: Lee Chan | Dino/Lee Jihoon | Woozi
Comments: 18
Kudos: 191





	same difference, no rules

**Author's Note:**

> howdy!
> 
> this fic was born purely out of my desire to capitalize on chan/jihoon's love-hate relationship. it blossomed in my head years ago, actually, when i watched one of their talk shows where chan and jihoon said they got along the least with one another. and then that one going seventeen episode where chan created an alcoholic drink for jihoon and passive aggressively made it bitter. and jihoon couldn't mask his contempt. good times. 
> 
> but i shelved my ideas until i lit a fire under my own ass, which i mostly credit @renonverbis on twitter for. so if youre reading this long pre-fic note, i hope you like it. 
> 
> anyways. this fic wasn't meant to be as long as it became. and i will shamelessly admit it was meant to be focused on the sexual tension and not much else - but i kinda fleshed it out from there. 
> 
> ok. this note is long enough. i hope anyone reading this self-gratifying creation enjoys it. [insert heart emoji here]

“Hey — everything good?” 

Jihoon looks up from where he’s seated on the floor of the hallway, outside the dance studio, sweat dampening the front of his tee shirt and sticking his hair to his face. Soonyoung is standing above him, peering down with his eyebrows itched in concern. It’s one in the morning when Soonyoung arrives, sleeveless tee shirt and gym shorts on. 

“Never better,” Jihoon says on a gasp, then takes another drink of water. His chest is still heaving from the past three hours of practicing choreography with minimal breaks — that, and anger-fueled adrenaline. 

There’s music playing inside the dance studio, albeit subdued out here in the hallway. Soonyoung blinks in the direction of the studio, then back down to Jihoon. “Ah,” he says. Acknowledgement flattens his eyebrows back out. “Is Chan here with you?” 

Jihoon’s face twists at the mere sound of his name. “You know the answer to that question.” 

A pause. The song abruptly turns off, and then starts from the beginning. 

Soonyoung snickers. “Wow. You two are something else.” He hands Jihoon the clean towel he has strung across one shoulder, takes the sweat-damp one Jihoon’s been using to clean off his face and neck. “He’s been here since 2 p.m., y’know that? Kid’s an animal.” 

“Oh, do I,” Jihoon’s tone oozes in sarcasm with a hint of exasperation. “He won’t let me fucking forget it.” He smiles a brief thanks to Soonyoung for the new towel and starts to blot his ink-black hair. “I thought I’d avoid him by leaving the studio and coming here at 10, but. You can see how that plan went.” 

Soonyoung laughs again as if Jihoon isn’t sitting in the hallway miserable because of his dispute, genuinely upset, with Chan. “You know you can’t avoid him,” Soonyoung teases. “That’s your first mistake. He practically lives here.” 

“You’d think he would’ve debuted by now with that determination,” Jihoon says. He tuts. “Maybe the company knows how bad his personality is. I can’t imagine him getting along with his group mates.” 

The song stops and starts at the beginning again. If Jihoon has to hear that same melody one more time he may actually scream. Chan hasn’t been going past the one minute mark since Jihoon’s been here, trying to perfect that portion of the choreography before progressing. And turns out Jihoon’s arrival made it worse, because after seeing Jihoon try the first minute of the dance out, Chan insisted that they wouldn’t move along until Jihoon had every step down to the very minuscule of details. 

Jihoon, worn out after working with Beomju in the studio all damn day, knew his patience was already paper-thin; but he tried to be a good sport. Truly. Genuinely. He’s going to be stuck training with Chan for the foreseeable future, which means seeing him every day with no means of escape, so he wanted to put all the past six months of bullshit behind them. Key word being  _ wanted _ , not wants. In the past tense, because Chan kept harping on the innocuous sections — like Jihoon’s toe not being pointed enough at so-and-so time; or Jihoon’s arm one centimeter below Chan’s, ‘ruining the synchronization’. How the fuck Chan caught that, he doesn’t know. 

What he does know, though, is that in the half a year he’s been training under Serenity Entertainment, Chan’s been a fucking stick in his ass. Sure, he wasn’t  _ as _ bad in the beginning, feeling Jihoon out, analyzing his worth, how much respect to give to him — but as soon as word went around that Jihoon’s interests aren’t in debuting in an idol group, a switch seemed to have flipped in his head. Flipped from ‘pleasant’ to ‘take my anger out on this new hyung because he doesn’t have the same goals as me and is only here to become a music producer but he had to sign a contract as an idol trainee’. How he heard the stipulations of his contract, Jihoon also doesn’t know. 

It’s okay. Wasn’t really meant to be a huge secret. And Jihoon doesn’t expect Chan to understand. He’s wanted to be an idol since he joined at fifteen years old, but Jihoon doesn’t. So he had to take a gamble: if he can prove his worth in the studio, the company will promote him to work alongside Beomju as their co-music producer/composer. If they don’t think he’s worth the pay-raise or the risk, he’ll have to debut in any idol group they toss him in. For ten years. It makes him sick to think about. 

Clearly makes Chan sick to think about, too. The chance at being stuck in a group with Jihoon for the next ten years of his life, pretending to adore him in front of the cameras but in actuality wanting to suffocate him in his sleep. Jihoon knows he gambled his life away with signing the contract — but metaphorically, not  _ actually _ gambled his life. 

Soonyoung crouches down in front of Jihoon, smile displacing his cheeks into his eyes. “He’s pretty cool to everyone else. I don’t think he’ll have any issues getting along with his group mates.” 

“Famous last words. Watch us debut together.” 

“No chance in hell,” Soonyoung says, fixing Jihoon a stern look. “You’re gonna be our second music producer. Law of Affirmation, dude.” 

Jihoon titters, takes another swig from his water bottle before saying, “If that law was real, I wouldn’t have to jump through these hoops. I’d already be working full time in the studio.” 

“God works in mysterious ways,” Soonyoung says. He gives Jihoon’s shoulder two pats when Jihoon grumbles at him, and then stands back up onto his feet. “Ready to go back in? I wanna see how well you two are doing on the cover.” 

A groan. Jihoon flops back against the wall. “You want me to go back in there with him? After he just got done insulting me?” 

“Well,” Soonyoung blinks towards the direction of the studio door, then back at Jihoon. “What did he say?” 

“The usual,” Jihoon says. “Not responsible, immature, difficult to work with, whatever, whatever.” He waves a hand around as if swatting away invisible flies. 

“Well,” Soonyoung says again. “If you don’t go back in there and polish the moves, you’re just proving him right. The most spiteful thing to do is return with a smile.” 

Jihoon hates how right Soonyoung is. And he’s right most of the time. Which makes sense, since Soonyoung has been the dance teacher and co-choreographer for trainees and idols for five years now. He’s learned how to manage intra-group disputes, how to make everyone work as a team and pretend to look happy doing it. Jihoon can’t help but be a little jealous of him; Soonyoung also started as a trainee when he was a teenager, quickly moved up to co-choreographer after proving himself, and now has been the dance teacher for two years. He’s accomplished way more than Jihoon has in the same amount of time, both of them being 24 years old. 

He lets out a troubled sigh, trying to expel his resentment with his breath. Alright. Jihoon is three years older than Chan, yet Chan is the one still in there dancing his ass off while Jihoon is out here pouting. That needs to change. 

“Fine,” Jihoon says on another sigh. He starts to get up, and Soonyoung extends a supportive arm. 

“That’s the spirit,” Soonyoung cheers. “Turn that frown upside down!” 

☽☽

Chan cuts the music off. “Wait, wait, wait,” he says, palm up in the air. His dark brown hair is wet with sweat and the water he doused himself in to cool off; the studio is never cold enough to keep them from overheating after dancing for a couple of hours. “Something’s wrong.” He shoves his fringe from out of his eyes and blinks in the direction of Jihoon, who has his hands on his knees, panting. “You still didn’t fix the toe-point. It looks awful when we’re not all pointing our toes.” 

“Here they go again,” Minghao, another one of the trainees, says under his breath. Jihoon only catches it because they’re standing next to one another in this part of the choreography. All the other four trainees in the room take the opportunity to catch their breaths and hydrate. 

It’s the following afternoon, and Choi Youngjoon released them from morning dance lessons to self-study. Soonyoung isn’t set to come until later that evening, at 8 p.m., so that leaves the trainees with the next seven hours to either perfect what they’ve covered, go eat, or anything else they see fit. 

Jihoon straightens up. “ _ Not _ ‘here they go again’,” he retorts, glancing at Minghao. But Minghao knows this routine by now; he smirks and averts his eyes, arms crossed. Jihoon shoots Chan a glare, who is glaring back. “My toe was pointed.” 

Chan mimics what Jihoon did, almost theatrical with how clumsy he represents Jihoon. “ _ This _ ,” he points to the leg he juts out in front of him, foot inverted at an awkward angle. “is a pointed toe? Hyung. I know you haven’t had any formal ballet lessons, but this is pitiful.” 

Jihoon bristles at the insult — the indirect and direct one. “I swear you only watch me,” he says, trying to keep his tone calm as to not prove Minghao right. “It’s past the point of creepy now. It’s  _ obsessive _ .” 

“You’re the only one that keeps messing up,” Chan counters. “If you’d practice more instead of bothering Beomju hyung, we wouldn’t be in this mess. You  _ do _ know we have to film in two days, right?” 

Of course he knows that. Chan is going to drive him up the fucking wall. “Don’t condescend me,” Jihoon says. “I know. My toe was pointed.” 

“I’m not being condescending,” Chan says. “Wasn’t sure if you knew that since you’re never in the dance studio with us.” He puts his hands on his hips, clearly not willing to put the fucking music back on so they can proceed instead of argue. But, hey, Jihoon expected this when Youngjoon dismissed them; Chan, despite being one of the youngest, barks orders like he’s the eldest. 

“Are we taking a break now so the old married couple can bicker, or…?” Jongsuk, another trainee, asks, rhetorical in the teasing way he says it. He’s standing with the others off by the wall, bottle of water in hand. 

Jihoon ignores him, keeps his eyes trained on Chan. “Okay,” he starts, stops to sigh. “Just because you’ve been here the longest doesn’t mean you have any authority over me… Like. Maybe if you were an  _ established _ idol I’d take your pointers more seriously.” 

The cheap attempt at retaliation is effective enough to visibly inflict pain. Chan’s body twitches as if he’d been pinched, eyes blinking rapidly. Then he stiffens up, cheekbones deepening as he clenches his jaw. “Cool,” he says — but the bite his tone once had is gone, leaving behind a croak that makes him sound young. Vulnerable. “Very cool, hyung.” 

Then the dance studio is quiet. The five men taking their break to the side stop their light chatter, sensing the shift in tension. 

And — Jihoon wants to feel bad. He really, really wants to. But he can’t bring himself to. Chan has had this coming since he started harassing him for any move he makes, wrong or otherwise. If he can’t take it, he shouldn’t be doling it out; Jihoon doesn’t care how much younger he is than him. 

That makes it worse, actually. 

But, if Jihoon even  _ wanted _ to apologize, he no longer has the chance to do so, because Chan mumbles, “You guys got this,” before crossing the studio and slipping out into the hallway in record time. Everyone whips their heads around to follow him until his body disappears around the corner. 

More silence follows.  _ Now _ Jihoon can feel a little bit of guilt tightening his rib cage down onto his lungs. 

Minghao looks away from the door and at Jihoon, who is pointedly staring where Chan was, by the speakers. “What did I say?” 

He doesn’t have to look at Minghao to know he’s smirking — his voice says it all.   
  
  


Soonyoung finds Jihoon hiding in the music studio. Jihoon’s sitting on the couch in his all-black ensemble, busy jotting down random lyrics onto the notepad in front of him. Beomju is sitting at his computer with headphones on. 

As he enters, Soonyoung bows politely at Beomju when Beomju turns in his chair at the sound of the intrusion. He tugs one earphone behind his ear. “Here for Jihoon?” 

“Yeah.” Soonyoung regards him with a shy, apologetic smile. “Sorry to disturb.” 

Beomju waves him off and turns back around to face his monitor. “It’s fine. I expected you’d swing by at some point today.” 

Jihoon places his pencil on top of the notepad and sits up from leaning over it. Here it is. The only reason Soonyoung ever comes to the music studio, outside of beckoning him to dance with the others, is to scold him. Word spreads fast in this tiny-ass building and through the dorms; it was only a matter of time that Soonyoung would find out about the latest dispute that ended in  _ Chan _ being the one to remove himself. Jihoon presses his hands between his knees, right foot bobbing up and down. 

Soonyoung’s gaze falls on him, expression eerily calm. “Jihoonie,” he greets, moving to the couch to sit pressed up right against him. “We gotta talk about what happened.” 

Of course. Jihoon nods, slow. “I know.” 

“We can’t go down this road anymore. You and Chan are… aren’t the best of friends. I get that. But you don’t need to be friends,” Soonyoung starts rattling off his Responsible Adult speech, and Jihoon keeps his eyes trained on his knees as he listens. “You need to be able to work together. When your arguments disrupt the rest of the guys, it slows us all down.” 

“I know.” 

“Chan may be difficult for you to deal with, but he’s your dongsaeng. That means you have a responsibility to not sink down to his level.” Soonyoung places a warm palm onto Jihoon’s shoulder, fingers pressing into the joint. Jihoon doesn’t budge. “If there’s no teamwork, there’s no team. And these disruptions can ruin Chan’s chances at debut… and your chance at producing.” 

Jihoon holds himself back from saying  _ I know _ again. In its place, he nods to show he’s digesting the possible ramifications of his actions. 

“I talked to Youngjoon sunbaenim. This conflict isn’t new to him. Or me. But I thought I could fix it without involving other people.” Soonyoung pauses. Jihoon braces himself for what he’s sure will be an awful solution to an awful circumstance. “I shifted your and Chan’s schedules around a bit. From 10 p.m. to 1 a.m. or however long you guys choose to stay, you’ll be training with one another in the 204B studio.” 

Yeah. Awful solution to an awful circumstance. Soonyoung seems to pick up on the way Jihoon deflates upon hearing the news, because he tightens his grip on his shoulder and shakes him a bit, an attempt at playfulness. “I think this will be good for you two. Learn to co-exist. Adapt to a difficult situation — because idol life will have a lot of difficult situations and difficult people. If you can’t deal with a little 21 year-old dongsaeng, I can’t see you surviving long… as an idol or a music producer.” 

“I get it,” Jihoon says, speaks over the final part of Soonyoung’s sentence. The words he doesn’t want to hear. “Okay. You’re right. As usual.” 

“I have my bad days,” Soonyoung says on a laugh. Another shoulder squeeze to accompany, “Love you, Jihoonie.” 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Jihoon groans. He shoves Soonyoung away when Soonyoung tries his luck and wraps his arms around Jihoon in an embrace. 

☽☽

The day before they’re set to film their cover dance, Jihoon spends the first half of the twenty-four hours finishing up a couple of songs and shadowing Beomju while he navigates the music program. The second half of the day is practicing the stupid choreography in an empty studio, doing the stupid point thing with his toe the way Minghao — the gracious man that he is, when he’s not acting entertained with drama — instructs him. The goal is to make sure Chan can’t criticize him on anything so that they can be done with their forced duo-practice early. 

Soonyoung told him after his mandatory scolding that he’ll randomly pop by to make sure they’re not wringing one another’s necks. “If you feel like it’s really not going to work out,” Soonyoung told him. “Or you feel unsafe, anything, let me know and we’ll have to figure something else out. Your mental and physical safety is my first priority.” 

It’s still sometimes difficult to wrap his head around Responsible Adult Soonyoung — especially since he’s seen him in a drunken stupor on many nights. He acts a fool even when he’s sober. But when he has to switch to his work personality, that’s when Jihoon knows he fucked up. 

So, he’ll play nice. As much as possible. That’s what he’s repeating in his head like a mantra, like it’ll hypnotize him into a more patient man, when he pushes the studio door open at 10 p.m. and Chan is already there. There’s no music on, but he’s diligently watching himself in the mirrors, body flowing with ease to a silent tempo. Jihoon quietly closes the door behind him, walks over to a corner to deposit his gym bag. 

Chan is still performing as if Jihoon isn’t there. 

Jihoon watches him for an uncomfortable few seconds, then — telling himself that he needs to be the responsible fucking person here that Soonyoung wants him to be — clears his throat and says, “Um. Hi.” 

Chan doesn’t respond right away. He’s bare foot, one planted on the hardwood, toes pointed horizontally, the other leg out in front of him, almost touching the floor but not quite. He has one arm cupped in the air, hand hanging over his head. He slowly raises his other arm to touch his fingertips together. Jihoon can appreciate the way he’s blending his ballet and contemporary training in a way that makes the choreography look completely different. Chan’s wearing leggings and a short-sleeved tee shirt, the material of the bottoms clinging to the firm lines of his legs and calves. 

He doesn’t stop watching his reflection, staring at himself like he’s the audience he has to impress. “Hey.” 

Jihoon doesn’t want to apologize. Sorry — but he crosses the line there. He remains convinced that Chan had it coming, and nothing will change his mind. Instead, he tries a roundabout way of mending the broken bridge (really, the bridge has been set on fire and launched into the atmosphere), and fills the awkward silence with, “Um. I think I learned the toe-point thing. Minghao showed me how.” 

Chan lowers his raised leg as if cutting through water. His arms remain curved into a circle, heated gaze on himself. Analyzing, analyzing, eyes flickering down to even the tiniest twitch or drift of his body. “Cool.” Finally, he relaxes into a standing stance and regards Jihoon in the mirror. “Show me.” 

Jihoon clears his throat again, fixes his sleeveless tee shirt on his torso as he walks over. The complete quiet — no track playing from the speakers — feels weirdly intimate. Awkward. But, Chan appears unbothered, gaze tracking Jihoon as he moves, lips pressed into a straight line. So maybe Jihoon is the only one making this weird. 

When Jihoon is standing a friendly distance from Chan, facing the mirror the same way he is, Chan points to Jihoon’s sneakers. “Take your shoes and socks off.” Jihoon turns his head to look at him, but the only thing he gets is the profile of his face; Chan is still only looking at Jihoon through his reflection. 

“Um,” Jihoon starts. 

“I need to see if you’re actually pointing your toes,” Chan answers the question that wasn’t vocally asked, but seen on Jihoon’s lips. “If we’re gonna do this we gotta do it right.” 

Sure. Playing nice. Jihoon does as he’s told, stuffs his socks into one shoe and kicks them both far enough away that there’s no risk of tripping over them. “Sir, yes sir.” Playing nice doesn’t mean he can’t be a sarcastic prick, though. 

Chan doesn’t take the bait. “Start from the top?” he asks Reflection Jihoon. 

Jihoon nods at Real Chan. “Yeah.” He pauses. “No music?” 

“No. We’ll count the tempo. If you can’t do the choreography without the song you don’t know it.” 

Playing nice, playing nice, playing nice. “Of course,” Jihoon bites out, the sarcastic inflection remaining. 

“And-a one, two, three, four,” Chan chants, clapping on beat until they begin to dance. 

They start off perfectly synchronized, Jihoon continuing the count in his head when Chan stops talking. He can hear their breaths as they move in tandem, how it becomes heavier and disorganized the more time passes. And he can feel himself start to get nervous, the part of the song that Chan keeps criticizing him on rapidly approaching. One more bend, one more arm swing, slow slow slow, and then — 

“Hold it,” Chan shouts, and Jihoon freezes where he is — toes pointed, one arm curved in front of him, the other straightened out behind. 

Jihoon waits, breath held, as Chan relaxes his body and walks over to Jihoon. Chan is close, gets closer, gets way too close, standing right at Jihoon’s side, but not yet touching. But he’s so close Jihoon can feel the heat radiating off of his damp skin, his hot breath across his cheek every exhale. He smells like sweat and laundry detergent and floral deodorant. Jihoon’s heart thrums in his throat. 

Chan studies him for a couple of nerve-wracking seconds. And then he reaches out, gently holds the elbow of Jihoon’s front-facing arm, raises it  _ a tad _ . Satisfied, he lowers his gaze to Jihoon’s foot. And then he looks at Jihoon’s reflection. 

One second, three seconds, eight seconds. Chan nods, impressed. “Minghao hyung is a good teacher.” 

Jihoon huffs a laugh. His outstretched leg and arms are starting to cramp, but he keeps the position for as long as Chan studies it in the mirror. “What — the credit all goes to Minghao? What about the man that learned it the way you like, Chan sunbaenim.” 

Their reflections consider one another. “Eh,” he says. “90/10. You have to be a very patient person to teach you.” 

“Asshole.” 

Chan’s lips quirk up into a ghost of a smile. “That’s ironic. Says the guy that tried to embarrass me in front of everyone.” 

Jihoon looks back at Real Chan. Chan doesn’t budge. “Wasn’t trying to embarrass you,” he says. “Just didn’t think your multiple comments about me working in the music studio was appropriate.” 

“So you decided to humiliate me instead of tell me to stop?” He raises an eyebrow at Reflection Jihoon. Jihoon watches the actual eyebrow raise in real time. 

“You had it coming,” Jihoon returns. “It’s all you’ve been nagging me about since I’ve been here.” 

No fast response this time. The sudden lapse in conversation makes the silence feel extra loud. Jihoon’s leg and arms are really burning now — but Chan won’t stop staring at Reflection Jihoon, and Jihoon refuses to lose form when Teacher Lee Chan is watching. A drop of sweat coasts along Chan’s jaw, drips onto his shoulder. 

“But it’s true,” Chan says. “You’re not here to be an idol.” 

“Okay,” Jihoon’s response is immediate. “So then you being a perpetual trainee is true, too.” He sees Chan’s expression harden. “See how that works?” 

“That isn’t even an equal comparison,” Chan says, stern. “One is a blatant insult and the other one is just a fact.” 

Well… Operation Play Nice is out the door before it even began. Chan somehow knows how to get under Jihoon’s skin in a way he’s never had to tolerate before — and he’s dealt with some huge assholes. Jihoon, abandoning his resolve, says, “don’t give it if you can’t take it. You’re all big and bad and confident when you scold me like I’m not your hyung, but when I respond you run away like a coward.” 

“I wasn’t in the mood for your shit that day,” Chan retorts. “I  _ am _ confident, because I know who I am and what I want. Unlike you, the contract I signed is the contract I’m getting. You’re living on ifs and maybes.” He seems to find an opening, persists with, “How long do you think you’re gonna be here before they decide what they wanna do with you? One year? Two years? Five? You  _ do _ know the same thing happening with me can happen to you, right? You’re not immune to the bullshit; keep dreaming.” 

Jihoon stares at his profile while Chan glares at Jihoon’s reflection. “Okay, big and bad Channie,” Jihoon says, the nickname said in a taunt. “If you’re so confident and have so much shit to say, why can’t you look at me? You haven’t looked in my  _ real _ face since I’ve been here. Say that shit to my face. Chan.” 

The request is immediately granted: Chan twists his head, dark eyes boring straight into Jihoon’s. Their faces are mere centimeters apart now, and Jihoon can feel Chan’s labored breathing against his lips, is sure Chan can feel the same. “Keep dreaming,  _ asshole _ ,” he says, voice dropping into a hint of a growl. 

His threatening response triggers Jihoon’s fight or flight; his blood goes hot, rushes through to his limbs, his brain; each breath he takes is loud between his ears. And, as Jihoon expects it would, the adrenaline that bursts out and turns the periphery of his vision blurry, chooses fight instead of flight. “You are so lucky,” his voice drops in tandem. “that I can’t beat your ass.” 

Chan titters. He’s watching Jihoon’s mouth when he flings back a, “Nice excuse. As if you could actually ‘beat my ass’. The only thing you have on me is a lower center of gravity.” He laughs again, a huff that blows against Jihoon’s lips, chin. 

Jihoon knew the short jokes were coming. What he doesn’t expect to come, though, is the way he finally drops the stance he’s in and snatches Chan by the collar of his tee shirt, and Chan lets Jihoon drag him closer, close enough that their foreheads press against one another, and Chan, being only slightly taller than Jihoon, has to tilt his head a little to stare down at Jihoon, mocking, taunting,  _ infuriating _ smile on his face. 

“Do it, hyung,” Chan whispers. His breath is hotter, not having to travel far to meet Jihoon’s mouth. “Beat my ass. I wanna see you try.” 

A deep, deep irrational part of Jihoon wants to go ahead and swing and worry about the consequences later. Really,  _ really _ wants to prove to Chan that despite being shorter — and not by that much, fuck you very much — he’s a lot stronger than he looks. And maybe that deep part isn’t so deep after all, because he feels his free hand twitch, and Chan’s still smirking and watching his lips as if he’s invincible and Jihoon won’t go ahead and — 

“I take it things are going well?” 

Both men swing their heads towards the door, where Soonyoung is standing, an elbow propping it open. He looks at them with a mixture of anger and amusement, the professional and the lax sides of him colliding. 

Jihoon has never moved faster in his life; he releases Chan’s collar, and the two take several big steps backwards and apart. Chan looks mortified, ears and cheeks turning red — and Jihoon’s sure he has the same expression on his own face, with how hot he’s burning. 

“Really well,” Jihoon tries. 

Soonyoung looks between the two of them for a while, contemplating. Then, “Hey. If this isn’t working then we can go back to the drawing board. I’m not sure what the second option will — “

Jihoon raises a hand. “No. We’re good. I’m good.” He takes a quick side-glance at Chan, who is still standing there like an idiot. “He said my toe-point was good now. Minghao’s a good teacher. Um. I can show you, if you want.” 

No movement. Soonyoung remains unconvinced, worry pulling his eyebrows together. He lingers at the door. 

“The toe-point is good, yeah,” Chan, the fucker,  _ finally _ speaks up. “He covered a lot of ground in one day. I’m impressed.” 

Now Soonyoung’s face is softening. “Okay,” he says. “Make  _ me _ impressed next.” 

Jihoon lets out the air he was holding in. 

☽☽

Thank the heavens — filming goes by quickly. They don’t have to do too many retakes when somebody messes up, and Chan — in between cuts — doesn’t have any smart remarks to toss his way. Maybe it’s because he did the dance perfectly, toe-point and 1cm higher arm and all. Or maybe he’s spooked after Jihoon was seconds away from calling his bluff and instigating a fight. Jihoon can’t tell for certain. 

But his eyes keep being drawn to Chan throughout filming and the lapses and everything that follows after. He watches as Chan wipes his face with his shirt, as Chan chats amicably with the other trainees, with Soonyoung and Youngjoon. And sometimes their eyes will meet for less than a second, but there is no malice, fear, or contempt hidden behind Chan’s expression. He simply looks, then looks away. 

Alright. Crisis averted? 

“Don’t celebrate too hard,” Youngjoon is saying, calling everyone to attention when filming is complete. “We have two more dances to learn tomorrow, vocal lessons the day after, and the kiddos have class. Rest for tonight, but be back here tomorrow at 6 a.m.” 

Nice. That leaves Jihoon with…  _ no _ time to go to the music studio tomorrow. When the day is busy he normally goes in the evening or at night, but with this mandatory duo practice with Chan in effect, he’s lost that precious time. Unless… 

Jihoon walks up to Soonyoung in the bustle of packing cameras and staff and trainees leaving. Soonyoung is bent over, stuffing towels and sweatbands into a duffel bag. “Soonyoungie,” Jihoon greets, a gentle sound. 

“Uh oh,” Soonyoung says. “Is that Jihoon I hear?” He straightens back up when the duffel bag is zipped and turns to address him. “I know you want something when you call me that. You’re not slick.” 

“Yeah, well,” Jihoon says, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “Now that we’re done with this cover song… and it was successful and whatever… Can we stop with the Chan and I practicing thingie?” 

Soonyoung blinks at him. Slowly. On an exhale, he says, “After one day?” 

Well. “Yeah?” he tries. 

Soonyoung hooks the strap of the bag over one shoulder, tells him, “The mandatory practice with Chan wasn’t for the sake of this  _ one _ dance cover. It was so you two could learn to co-exist.” 

“I know,” Jihoon says. “But we co-existed just fine. He taught me what I needed to know, we synched our dance up, and we’re good.” 

An incredulous laugh. “After what I saw last night? No way in hell you two are good.” He leans closer to him. “I decided to ignore it since you and Chan were playing along, but I know you two were arguing. If you want me to try the optional — “

“No.” Jihoon deflates, eyes averting. “No, that’s okay. I’ll keep with this plan.” 

Soonyoung presses another encouraging palm to Jihoon’s shoulder. “I get it. It’s hard. And I’m not trying to punish you two. Y’know that, right?” 

If it’s not punishment, why does it feel so much like it? Jihoon’s convinced that they’re going to end up actually fist-fighting before they ever become friends, let alone acquaintances. If their first and only night is anything to go by, there is an unfixable amount of resentment. At least… resentment that Jihoon can’t fix. The fact of the matter is that yeah, he doesn’t want to be an idol, and Chan can stay bitter about it, but Jihoon’s not budging. A plan is a plan. 

“I know. We’ll fix it — promise.” 

Soonyoung, punctuating his smile with a shoulder squeeze, says, “Thanks. Actually — a couple of the guys and I were thinking of going out for a drink and some Chinese food. You think you’re up to it? Means you won’t have to go to the 10 p.m. studio session.” He raises his eyebrow up and down at Jihoon, widens his eyes as if to say  _ does that tempt you? _

“Let me guess,” Jihoon deadpans. “Chan is gonna be there.” 

The pleading face morphs into one of remorse. “Um,” Soonyoung says. “Yeah. We’re not gonna  _ not _ invite him just because one person doesn’t like him.” 

Jihoon lets out an exhausted sigh. Exhausted in every sense of the word; his muscles are screaming at him to rest after non-stop dancing, and there’s the mental stress from the shitty predicament he’s put himself in. Fuck. Why didn’t he just keep his mouth shut and let Chan make digs at him? 

“You don’t have to talk to him, Hoon,” Soonyoung is saying. “Plenty of other guys will be there.”

That’s a good point. Wherever Chan sits, he’ll sit at the complete opposite spot. Preferably near Soonyoung or another trainee he likes, Jeonghan, but beggars can’t be choosers. Jeonghan gets along with Chan very well; they’re pretty much better friends than Jihoon is with Jeonghan. So. Yeah. Again: beggars can’t be choosers. 

“Okay,” Jihoon says. “I’ll go.” 

  
  
  
  


The short of it is that Jihoon doesn’t get his way. Jihoon, Soonyoung, Minghao, and Jongsuk arrive to the restaurant first and claim one end of the long table. Soonyoung called in to reserve a section at the back, away from the bustle, and there are cutlery, menus, chopsticks, and glasses of water already set up for them. Soonyoung is at one head of the table, Jeonghan and Jongsuk across from one another, then Jihoon next to Jeonghan, no one across from him. Leaving an open spot to his right. 

Yes. Chan, Youngjoon, and the other trainees (Baekhyun, Sangsoo, and Yoo), and some of the stylists and other team members arrive next — and Chan clambers over to the seat right next to Jihoon. As if nothing. Perhaps it’s to make a point, or to claim dominance, or some other bullshit reason, but Chan leans forward and talks across Jihoon, says, “Jeonghan hyung, glad that you came.” And then he greets all the others at that end. 

Jihoon’s greeting never comes. 

Whatever. Two can play at that game. 

Jihoon turns his head to look Chan straight in his eyes, smiles and says, “Good to see you, too, Channie. Good job during filming today.” 

Chan matches the smile while picking up his glass of water. “Wow, hyung, thanks. You weren’t so bad yourself. Half a beat off from the rest of us at some points, but, y’know, better than where you were two days ago!” He takes a long, noisy sip while blinking sweetly at Jihoon. 

Fucker. 

“We haven’t even ordered and you guys are already at it?” Soonyoung groans like a disappointed parent. “Please not here. It’s a holy place. Sacred. Argument-free zone.” 

“Hyung, no, I was complimenting him,” Chan says with dramatized shock, eyes widening and hand waving side to side. “He really was better than two days ago!” 

Jeonghan laughs, head knocking forward. “You’re such a bad actor.” 

“If you guys keep this up I’m gonna switch seats,” Jongsuk says, tone flat. “I can’t take it anymore. It’s like a new form of torture.” 

“Imagine how I feel.” Jihoon grumbles, shifting in his uncomfortable wooden chair. Regardless, he chooses to drop it, and when Soonyoung starts to talk about an idol group he’s creating a choreography for, he pays attention. Because it  _ is _ interesting to learn more about Soonyoung’s line of work, always reminds him how far along he is in his career, keeps Jihoon motivated to work towards his own dream. 

The waitress comes by when everyone is settled and are looking at their menus, and then she and another waitress take their orders. Jihoon requests a bottle of beer with his course — the first of many he’s going to need to get through sitting next to Chan all night. It’s somehow worse than the night they practiced together, because instead of them being distracted with their work, he has to hear Chan’s voice, his laughter, the very quick, sly comments he shoots at Jihoon intermittently. There’s nothing to buffer the bullshit. 

Thank god, the waitress delivers his and everyone else’s bottles, and Jihoon polishes more than half of his off by the time she’s coming back around with their food. He thanks her when she sets his white rice with beef and broccoli stir fry in front of him; when she’s done passing out the plates to their end, he raises a hand, asks, “Another beer, please.” 

Chan swallows the food in his own mouth, raises a hand, too. “Same.” 

“ _ Please _ ,” Jihoon says for him. He’s promptly ignored. 

This is going to be a very long night. 

“Absolutely,” she says. “Anyone else?” 

Soonyoung and Jeonghan ask for another, and off she goes, returning within minutes with the second round. 

“He was complaining from day  _ one _ ,” Jongsuk is saying to them between bites of his lo mein. “I knew he wouldn’t make it. I kept asking him,  _ are you sure this is what you wanna do _ ? And after, like, a week he stopped saying yes. And guess what?” 

“He quit the next day?” Jeonghan offers. 

Jihoon gulps down the rest of his beer, then suggests, “He had a breakdown?” 

Jongsuk points at Jihoon. “Ding, ding, we have a winner. He broke down one of the last times I asked him, and missed a day of practice.” 

Soonyoung frowns at the imagery. “They always break down before they quit or get cut, don’t they? Like a rite of passage, but crueler.” 

Chan has moved on to his second bottle. “This industry isn’t for the weak-minded. Whenever a friend tells me they wanna join Serenity, I tell them that if you can’t see yourself being a trainee for more than five years, don’t bother.” He pauses to take a sip. “It’ll be a waste of time, and you don’t get paid. So you’re broke, and when you leave you owe the company a shitload of money.” 

“It’s like taking out a loan,” Jeonghan sighs. He lifts a sautéed broccoli floret and pops it into his mouth. He chews a couple of times before he says, “I’m at the three year mark and I’m definitely feeling it.” 

A wry laugh from Chan. “Try  _ six _ years, dude.” 

“Well,” Soonyoung addresses Chan. “I think you’re gonna debut soon, Channie. There’s serious talk of creating a group catered for the older crowd. Like… early to late twenties. Woobin daepyonim has mentioned you once or twice.” 

This makes Chan light up, the alcohol amplifying his reaction. “Are you serious?” 

Jihoon finishes his second bottle while they talk. He hasn’t eaten much at this point; his limbs are starting to feel a litter looser, his body more relaxed. “Look at that, Chan,” he says. “Half a decade later, the light at the end of the tunnel is here.” And then he’s flagging the waitress down for another bottle. 

“Keep that up and you’ll be stuck here for six years, too,” Chan’s retort is fast. He meets Jihoon’s lazy stare, says, “And instead of composing they’ll toss you in a band and keep you in the back of every dance formation.” 

Jongsuk groans as obnoxiously as possible. “Moving on,” he says while turning to Soonyoung. “What’s going on with that girl group — was it Daizy or something like that? I heard you were having trouble teaching them . . .” 

They break off into their own conversation, but Jihoon is stubborn and refuses to let Chan get away with that quip. Neither break eye contact; Jihoon shoots back, “You don’t scare me, ‘cause I know you’re just bitter because everyone around you is debuting but you. You ever wonder  _ why _ daepyonim won’t let you?” 

Chan doesn’t answer. His lips are still a straight line, gaze unfaltering and dark. The waitress places Jihoon’s third bottle of beer on the table and picks up the two empty ones. Chan requests one of his own without looking away from Jihoon. 

“Of course,” she says before going to the other end of the table. 

“I have an idea why,” Jihoon squints, an index finger wagging while his other hand is preoccupied with lifting the bottle to his mouth. Chan, surprisingly, lets him take a swig before he continues: “You’re not sellable. You’re a good dancer and vocalist, I’ll give you that. But talent isn’t enough as an idol.” 

“So what are you saying?” Chan asks, uncharacteristic in how he’s humoring Jihoon. 

He waits again as Jihoon drinks some more. 

“If you’re untalented — I’m talking cannot sing on key if your life  _ depended _ on it and you can barely follow choreographies — but you’re really, really hot, bets are you’ll still be popular with fans. And it’s because being an idol is way more than what you can do. It’s what you look like.” 

“Sounds like you’d be unpopular, too, then,” Chan tells him. “Shorter than me, jaw not as defined, smaller eyes than me… guess we’ll both be in limbo for half a decade.” He punctuates the statement with a theatrical shrug and innocent  _ what can ya do? _ expression. 

Jihoon laughs, head knocking back. “That comeback would really hurt me if I  _ wanted _ to be an idol. How many times do I have to — “

“They’re not promoting you to a music producer, so get over it,” Chan interrupts. “They give you false promises so you’ll be indebted to them. Sorry, hyung.” 

Jihoon sits up in his seat, gulps down most of his bottle, and then slides it away. He turns to Chan, leans towards him as if about to tell a secret. Chan watches quietly as Jihoon places an elbow on the table and holds his head up in the palm of his hand. “I know you guys like to gossip,” he says. “But there’s still a lot of shit you don’t know about me. I promise you I won’t be a trainee anymore in less than two years.” 

Chan’s eyes, much like they did when they were about to fight in the dance studio, flicker down to Jihoon’s wet mouth. “No, I believe you,” he says, his volume falling until Jihoon’s the only one that’s able to hear him. Also whispering in the same way he did when they were about to fight. “You either won’t make it to two years, or they’ll terminate your contract.” 

Jihoon grins at him, mocking. “You’re so bitter, Channie. Those six years were hard on you, huh? I’m sorry.” 

“Okay, you two,” Soonyoung halts his own conversation to shout at them. He waves a hand across the table. “Either stop whatever you’re doing or take it outside. I said this was an argument-free zone.” 

Chan has yet to break eye contact. “We’re not fighting, Soonyoung hyung,” he says. “Jihoon hyung is giving me advice.” He lowers his voice again, a dark brown eyebrow twitching up, “Bestow your wisdom upon me, hyung. Since you know so much about idol life; how are you  _ so _ sure you’re not gonna be a trainee in under two years?” 

Jihoon grabs his bottle of beer — also without breaking eye contact — and downs the rest of it. Okay. He needs to stop drinking now. Tipsy is leaning a little too close to drunk, and drunk Jihoon takes the bait easier than tipsy Jihoon. “Idols are a dime a dozen,” Jihoon says. “But music producers? Way harder to come by. And Beomju has been training me for a reason… how often have you seen him do that since you’ve been here, Six Year Trainee?” 

He can see the gears turning in Chan’s head in the silence that follows. Jihoon knows there won’t be an answer, because Beomju has already told Jihoon: he’s the only trainee that he’s been willing to help. He saw Jihoon’s music, saw his lyrical genius, and therefore sees hope in him.  _ That _ is the advantage Jihoon has over the rest of them. Guess the gossip didn’t go that into detail. 

Chan eventually stirs, huffing a sarcastic laugh. “You,” he’s whispering. “Are so frustrating.” 

No answer. Exactly what Jihoon thought. “That’s the best you can do?” Jihoon taunts. 

“You think you’re so much better than everyone,” Chan persists, as if Jihoon didn’t say anything. “So cocky, acting all high and mighty. Acting like you have better things to be doing than training with us.” 

“Sounds like your opinion,” Jihoon returns. “The only guy that acts like an asshole to me is  _ you _ . You’re just intimidated. And bitter. Admit it.” 

Another prolonged stare off follows. Jihoon refuses to back down first. Yes — it’s silly, he can admit that, but he doesn’t want to let Chan ‘win’. Chan made the first power move by sitting next to him, so it’s  _ Jihoon’s _ turn to hold the dominance. Make Chan realize that he isn’t one to be fucked with. 

Chan’s stare twists into a stiff, painful-looking smile. “I’m looking forward to our practice session tomorrow night, hyung!” Then he promptly switches his attention to whatever Soonyoung is telling Jeonghan and Jongsuk.

_ Hah _ . 

Chan: 0, Jihoon: 1. 

☽☽

The next week can only be described with one word: hell. It’s a constant flurry of group practice, vocal lessons, recording, cramming music studio time in between, and nightly duo sessions with Chan. By the time 10 p.m. rolls around everyday, Jihoon’s already exhausted, cranky, and without patience; but Chan continues with the abuse, barking orders and taking any opportunity to bait Jihoon into an argument. He’s  _ definitely _ mad about Jihoon’s victory at the restaurant. And the stubborn shit that he is, Chan doesn’t let up even seven days later. 

“How can you not get this simple move right?” Chan is shouting on one of the days. “It’s so easy but you make it look sloppy.” 

“I’m  _ doing _ the fucking move,” Jihoon shouts back. “Just because it’s not the way  _ you _ prefer it doesn’t mean I’m not doing it.” 

“You’re hopeless,” Chan is groaning on another one of the days. He has his hands on his face as he paces around the studio. “No wonder you want to compose instead. You’re so fucking bad.” 

This is the day Jihoon nearly ruptures the blood vessels in his eyes with the strain of not rushing Chan and knocking him onto the floor. “You’re being dramatic, fucker. I can tell you used to be a theatre kid.” 

On another day — Jihoon thinks it’s day five, but he’s lost track by now — they spend the three hours arguing more than dancing. They’ll do a few moves, Chan will whine that Jihoon has two left feet, he’s hopeless, he’s not talented, whatever, and then Jihoon will go right back to Chan being a perpetual trainee, and then Chan will take the bait, and then — bam — another fight with them using the same insults over and over. 

And every time Soonyoung pops up, they’ll revert to pleasantries, tolerate one another long enough for Soonyoung to be satisfied and dismiss them. 

“Things getting better?” Soonyoung asks Jihoon on day seven, when Chan has already packed up and left. They’re in the hallway, ambling down and out of the building. 

Jihoon has to force,  _ force _ the muscles in his face to pull his lips into a smile when he answers a curt, “So much better.”

☽☽

Then they’re a few days away from filming solo dance and vocal performances for Woobin daepyonim to review with his team, and this is the most stressed Jihoon has seen Chan in awhile. The first time was during Jihoon’s second month of trainee life, when the company requested a similar video from them; Chan had secluded himself to practice alone for a week leading up to it. But now… there’s no week to train. Youngjoong relayed the news to them three days in advance: they all have to sing and dance to the same song. Once only dancing, once only singing, and then singing while dancing. 

So — Chan’s been very tense, expression serious, the entire day. And when Jihoon shows up for their 10 p.m. session, he hasn’t relaxed at all. 

“This needs to be perfect,” Chan says before Jihoon can even close the fucking oor behind himself. He has his hands on his waist, balled up in fists, pacing back and forth in front of the wall-long mirrors. “I can’t afford you to fuck this up for me.” He stops pacing to look across the room at a dumbfounded Jihoon. “Don’t talk to me for the next three hours. We’ve already wasted a lot time because of you.” 

Okay. For someone that doesn’t want to be spoken to or distracted, he sure can’t keep himself from instigating another fight. And in a new record, too: they haven’t been alone with each other for even a minute. 

Jihoon lets the door click shut behind him, walks to a spot by the speakers to deposit his gym bag. “Because of me, huh?” Jihoon tuts. “You accuse me of something as soon as I walk through the door and you expect us to not waste more time?” 

“It’s true,” Chan says. “You don’t practice enough, so you get the steps wrong, and then when I try to help you you start your nagging. Your fault.” He watches as Jihoon takes his filled water bottle and towel out. “So don’t talk to me. Pretend I’m not here and we won’t have any issues.” 

The laugh that escapes Jihoon is automatic. “Wow, Chan,” he says. “I get that you’re panicking because this is, like, a huge deal to you. But acting more like a dick than usual isn’t going to make this night go the way you want it to.” 

“Or the way  _ you _ want it to,” Chan spits back. He walks over to the speakers too, and picks up his phone. He maintains the glare on Jihoon, who is mirroring the expression, before turning his attention to his phone as he scrolls for the song they’ve been assigned. “No more chatter. Shut up.” Chan taps on something, and the speakers come to life, music blasting. 

And — nope. Nope, nope, nope. Jihoon was willing to tolerate Chan’s barking tonight. He truly, honestly was. He’s seen how stressed and near an anxiety attack Chan has been since Youngjoon relayed the message first thing that morning; and looking at Chan was making  _ Jihoon _ feel anxious. So, trying to be the mature and responsible one, Jihoon told himself that he’d listen to Chan when he instructs him without making a snippy comment back. 

But, of course, in classic Lee Chan antics, he knows exactly what to say for Jihoon to abandon any semblance of maturity he conjured up before arriving. 

Not today. 

Chan is beginning to dance, intently watching his reflection as he moves — up until Jihoon snatches his phone and turns the music off. Then they’re back to silence. 

“You think you can act like a complete and utter asshole and I’m going to go ‘ _ yes sir, whatever you want sir _ ’ and shut up?” Jihoon says, incredulous. He’s gaping at Chan as Chan whips his head around, and — if looks could kill…. Jihoon would’ve been dead many times already, but the rage that crosses Chan’s face now is one that would kill Jihoon, bring him back to life, and then kill him again. But Jihoon isn’t fucking afraid of Chan. “Being stressed is  _ not _ an excuse to talk to me that way. I’m your  _ hyung _ .” 

And then Chan is crossing the studio in record time, heads straight for Jihoon. Jihoon lets him snatch the phone out of his hand when he gets to him, but he maintains the shocked, enraged disposition. “I told you,” Chan is saying in a growl. “To not  _ interrupt _ . I have never met somebody as fucking frustrating as you.” 

“You think you’re any better?” Jihoon says back, voice louder but not quite a shout. It reverberates in the empty, silent space of the room. “You think I enjoy being fucking stuck with you, having to deal with your moods, having to listen to you talk shit and — “

Chan drops his phone on top of the speakers and snatches the front of Jihoon’s shirt in one fell swoop, dragging Jihoon into him when he shoves their foreheads together. It’s forceful enough to hurt, Jihoon’s head throbbing where Chan has him pressed to him, and he winces. “Do something about it,” Chan is officially shouting, right in Jihoon’s face with his hot breath, and — yup. Adrenaline, fight or flight, fight chosen, the same ‘ol routine. “You said you wanted to beat my ass. So beat it, Jihoon. Fucking beat my ass!” 

First name. No honorific. Cool. It’s like Chan has a rulebook that he studies every night on how to create the perfect formula to piss Jihoon off. 

Jihoon’s not thinking about the consequences —  _ refuses _ to think about them, honestly — when he grabs two fistfuls of Chan’s shirt in return, uses them to pivot them to the left and shove Chan against the wall as hard as he can. Chan wheezes out a breath of air when his back collides against the white brick, his legs twisted awkwardly from the shift. And his face is red with heat, adrenaline, rage, when he continues to shout, “Beat my ass, Jihoon, you fuck,  _ beat my ass _ ,” over and over. 

Wish granted. Jihoon releases one fist to grab Chan’s head and shove it back against the wall with enough force to hurt, but not to disable or disorient him. Chan hisses, his blabber coming to a sudden stop. “Get your fucking forehead  _ off _ me,” Jihoon shouts right back into Chan’s face, retribution for when Chan screamed in his. 

Then the only noises in the room are their pants, not from exertion, but from the adrenaline and anger. Chan’s face is flushed, upper lip and cheeks glossy from a thin sheen of sweat, his bottom teeth bared. His straight, brown hair is slightly wet, fringe smushed to his forehead. 

Neither say anything. Which. It’s sort of weird. This is where Chan is supposed to come back in with a smart retort or expletives that spurs Jihoon to use more physical force to shut him up… but Chan is uncharacteristically quiet. Quiet as in not speaking; his pants are audible, his chest heaving, up and down and up and down, beneath Jihoon’s remaining grip. So. The change in the script they’ve been following for the past few months is bewildering. 

Jihoon isn’t sure how to proceed — so he doesn’t move, continues to breathe heavily and watch Chan watch him. 

Maybe ten, twenty seconds pass of nothing. Jihoon isn’t sure how long, just that it’s longer than any other time they’ve argued. Then Chan’s voice falls, low and airy with his panting, “Beat my ass, Jihoon,” in a way that’s made almost… sultry with the way he gasps it, the way his face is flushed and wet, head tipped back against the wall, the long, damp line of his throat exposed. 

Okay. Maybe Jihoon’s the only one feeling weird about this. Weird, because the anger is becoming subdued with a confused shock of warmth that crawls down his spine, settles low in his abdomen. But then he’s hoping that maybe this is to throw Jihoon off. Confuse him so Chan can take the opportunity to pounce and get the upper hand.

That’s the assumption Jihoon’s going with when Chan’s eyes fall down to his mouth — but, unlike the last time they nearly got into a fist fight, it doesn’t look aggressive. At least, not aggressive in the same way. It doesn’t look like Chan is trying to be intimidating. 

“No?” Chan breathes. “Don’t have it in you?” A single huff of a laugh. “That’s what I thought.” 

It’s visceral, mindless, when Jihoon tightens his grip again and tries to drag Chan away from the wall and onto the floor, but Chan resists before Jihoon manages to knock him over; he grabs the collar of Jihoon’s sleeveless shirt with both hands and forces him closer. Their bodies pivot, parallel to the wall, and it’s another stand off, their faces centimeters apart, Chan now grinning like it’s a challenge and Jihoon wearing a blend of anger with a hint of uncertainty. 

“You,” Jihoon starts, now watching Chan’s mouth as Chan watches his. “are  _ really _ fucking obnoxious.” 

Another laugh from Chan. He adjusts his hold on Jihoon’s shirt, gathering more material for leverage. “Shut me up, then,” he says on a shaky exhale.

When Jihoon pulls him in, Chan does the same, smashes their mouths together in a painful knock of teeth. 

For a moment, neither move. Their lips are awkwardly slotted together, Chan’s bottom lip on Jihoon’s top, Chan halfway onto Jihoon’s philtrum. And Chan’s breathing harshly through his nose, the rise and fall of his chest jostling their arms that are trapped between their bodies. And… 

And this is what Jihoon was feeling.  _ Is _ feeling. The heat that began to build in his low abdomen, pulsating. Arousal. At the realization, it sinks even lower, under his joggers and between his legs. Fuck. He feels disembodied, like he’s at the mercy of whatever his arms, legs,  _ dick _ , decides to do — like his brain has yet to catch up with what’s happening right now, that he’s, albeit sloppily, kissing  _ Lee Chan _ . 

But Jihoon’s brain continues to lag behind, not catching up — maybe doesn’t even want to, wants to give control entirely to his most primitive desires — when Chan shakes the initial shock and starts to move, adjusts so that they’re kissing properly now. He licks into Jihoon’s slack mouth, still breathing in sharp jolts, and doesn’t wait before he turns it desperate, rough. 

Jihoon is quick to match his fervor, leaning into Chan as Chan leans into him; then Chan removes his grasp on Jihoon’s shirt and holds Jihoon by the back of his neck with both hands instead, pulling him impossibly close. This changes the angle into one that gives Jihoon’s tongue easier access into Chan’s mouth; and when Chan starts to moan into it, high and needy, the arousal that shoots down along his spine has his hips jut out and against Chan’s. 

And,  _ fuck _ . They’re both hard. It’s scary how quickly Jihoon’s cock fattens up with a kiss. Jihoon can feel Chan’s erection against his own through the thin material, and he can’t help but gasp when Chan’s hips shift and grinds them together. Then he can’t help but gasp once more at the sound Chan makes — a high, drawn out whimper, one that he repeats when he grinds into Jihoon again. 

Just as Jihoon gains enough brain power back to recognize that this is dangerous — fucked — completely out of left field, he loses it; Chan breaks the kiss only to replant his mouth to Jihoon’s jaw, down to the sensitive skin of his throat, and without the buffer Jihoon is panting out into the open, the silence and emptiness of the room amplifying his noises. 

Fuck — Chan is  _ mouthing _ at Jihoon’s throat, sloppy and wet with his tongue, shamelessly moaning as he moves across to the other side, the vibration of his voice making Jihoon’s entire body involuntarily shiver. And the only thing Jihoon is thinking is  _ more, more, more, _ like a hypnotic chant, his hands letting go of Chan’s shirt to palm both of his ass cheeks, pull Chan flush against him to grind his hips into him again. Now they’re both moaning, heavy breaths interspersed, rutting into one another. 

It’s both  _ so _ much and not even close to enough. And while initially it felt good, so good, now Jihoon is feeling the dry, painful drag of his fully hard cock against his briefs and the inside of his joggers. His delirium is lowering his inhibitions, screams at him to free himself from his bottoms and just jerk off to completion — but Chan moves faster, hooks a thumb under Jihoon’s waistband and drags both his pants and underwear low enough for his cock to spring out. 

Jihoon gasps from the slap of cold air hitting him where it’s so, so hot, then groans, his dick throbbing, when Chan uses a hint of teeth against his throat. Reflexively baring his neck, he breathes a, “ _ Fuck _ ,” only to go mute after Chan frees his own hard cock and ruts against Jihoon  _ again _ , soft, warm skin against soft, warm skin. 

Chan gets a hand around the both of them, twists his palm over where they’re both leaking precum, then strokes down. Jihoon finds his voice again, whimpering, hips thrusting with Chan’s rhythm. “ _ Hyung _ ,” Chan gasps, breath shooting another wave of arousal down Jihoon’s spine. “Hyung, fuck..” 

His brain registers for only a second that Chan’s back to using honorifics — and then everything shuts down, Jihoon’s sole focus on Chan’s firm strokes, Chan’s moans, the roll of their hips. 

It doesn’t take much longer for Jihoon to feel his orgasm washing over him — and it’d be embarrassing as fuck, if not for the fact that he has zero brain functioning left. And, fuck, he hasn’t had somebody else’s hands on him in over  _ half a year _ at this point. Jihoon can’t be to blame here. He tightens his grip on Chan’s ass, hips stuttering, tries to warn him of his impending release with a jolted, “Chan, Chan, I’m —  _ there _ — ”

“Hyung,” Chan says again, low, desperate — and Jihoon isn’t sure who comes first, just knows that he’s spilling into Chan’s hand, onto Chan’s cock. And his eyes are fluttering closed, mouth hanging open on a silent gasp. 

He doesn’t realize Chan’s come is also on his softening cock until he’s leaning his shoulder on the wall for support, trying to catch his breath and return to himself. Chan’s grip is gone, and he pulls away from where he was panting against Jihoon’s neck. Then. The studio is silent aside from their harsh exhales. 

So. 

Wow. OK. 

Jihoon is still stunned, his mind reeling, when Chan seems to recover enough to reach down and grab a towel from the stack by the speakers. He cleans his hands and cock off with it, folds it over to a clean side, and extends it to Jihoon without looking at him. Jihoon dumbly takes it.

They both fix their pants and briefs back over their hips. Chan refuses to make eye contact as he softly says, “I’ll. Uh. Wash it.” He takes the soiled towel back from Jihoon. Jihoon remains against the wall and watches Chan go find a plastic bag from the storage closet and stuff the towel into it. 

Chan walks back over to his gym bag and drops the soiled towel on top of it. Jihoon follows him with his eyes. 

“Um.” Chan still isn’t looking at him. He smooths his palms down the front of his shirt, flattening down the wrinkles. “We, uh. Need to practice?” 

They’re not talking about it. Okay… It’s not like they have anymore time to waste. And, honestly, Jihoon doesn’t know what to say. What  _ is _ there to say? Sorry? What was this? Was the constant arguing just unresolved sexual tension? How long did Chan want to do that? 

How long did  _ Jihoon _ want to do that? 

“Yeah,” Jihoon starts, mouth dry. “Start from the beginning and I’ll watch how you do it.” 

☽☽

It’s the best they’ve practiced with one another since they started. Chan’s corrections are stated without malice, Jihoon is receptive to the feedback, and they use the final hour to go through the choreography on their own. 

At the end of the night, they give one another weak goodbyes, Jihoon watching Chan watch the floor. And then. That’s it. They leave and walk back to the dorms. 

Group practice the following morning also goes well. Chan and Jihoon don’t argue, when Chan gives pointers Jihoon listens. Youngjoon dismisses them to either continue practicing or to go eat, and the other trainees are staring at them like they have two heads. 

Minghao approaches Jihoon as he takes a break to drink some water. Arms crossed, he says, “So. Am I in the twilight zone, or something? Did you and Chan make up?” 

Jihoon’s gaze flickers over to where Chan is talking warmly to Jeonghan. “Uhh,” he says. “Something like that.” 

☽☽

It doesn’t take long for Soonyoung to pick up on it, too. Jihoon’s in the music studio during his free time when Soonyoung finds him, plops down onto the open couch and leans back. “Hoonie,” he greets. “I heard some strange news from a hyung.” 

Jihoon swivels in his chair to glance at Soonyoung. Beomju keeps the headphones on and continues to work. “Strange news, huh?” Jihoon tries for a casual tone. 

“Yup. About you. And Chan.” 

Surprise, surprise. “Yeah, everything’s cool,” Jihoon chooses to beat him to it. “We decided to put our differences behind us. For the sake of the team. And stuff.” 

Soonyoung blinks at him. He doesn’t look like he believes Jihoon at all. And Jihoon doesn’t blame him; he doesn’t believe him, either. It has to be the quiet before the storm or something, because there’s no way a sporadic, mutual hand job in the midst of one of their worst arguments means that they’re good now. Chan won’t even  _ look _ at him. 

“And how did you two do that?” Soonyoung asks. “I  _ gotta _ know. ‘Cos it’s, like, a miracle. Pigs must be flying.” 

Jihoon hopes the laugh that escapes him doesn’t sound as forced as it does to him. “Yeah? Well. Pigs must be flying. Better check outside.” He laughs again, squirms in the chair. 

Soonyoung raises an eyebrow. “Not gonna fill me in? What did you say to him? What did he say to  _ you _ ?” 

Fuck. There is no way in hell that Jihoon can tell Soonyoung. Not only was it wildly unprofessional, but Soonyoung — who is his superior, no matter how good of friends they are outside of work — would have no choice but to report them. Risking contract termination. Fuck, fuck, fuck. In a flurry of panic, Jihoon blurts the first thing that comes to mind: “It’s a, um. A secret.” His inflection makes it sound like a question more than anything else. 

“A secret?” Soonyoung stares at him for a couple of seconds, and then starts to laugh. “Really?” 

The damage is done. He has to roll with it. “Yeah. I’ll tell you soon. Just…” He inhales shakily. “Not right now.” 

Thankfully, Soonyoung doesn’t push anymore. Instead he straightens back up on the couch, squints at him as he says, “You better. And it better not be you bribing him with money to play nice. Or you two pretending until after filming is over.” He stands up and heads towards the door. 

Jihoon’s eyes follow him. “None of the above,” he says. Another forced laugh escapes. “Don’t worry. I’ll tell you.”  _ Once I figure it out myself _ . 

“I’m holding you to that,” Soonyoung maintains the playful squint while backing out of the studio. “See you later tonight.”

When the door shuts behind him, Beomju turns to look at Jihoon. “Secret?” The corners of his mouth quirk up in disbelief. “You could’ve come up with a better lie than that.” 

Jihoon feels his face burning hot. He swivels back around in the chair to face the computer monitor. “I panicked, alright? And now I gotta think about what the secret is.” 

Beomju cackles, his head knocking back. “Now you have  _ me _ curious what this not-secret secret is.” 

“I don’t know,” Jihoon mumbles. “Like, I honestly don’t know what happened. That’s the answer.” 

“Right…” Beomju is still smirking. “I think you know what happened. Just not what it means.” 

Funny how Beomju hits the head on the nail. Jihoon squirms in the seat again. “You’re. Um. Yeah.” 

“Well,” Beomju turns his attention back to the music program he has pulled up on his screen. “When you figure it out, I’d love to know.” 

Unlikely. But, “I’ll try,” Jihoon says. 

☽ ☽

Jihoon decides that the most merciful option is to wait until filming is over to bring  _ it _ up. He doesn’t want to throw Chan off kilter for what is arguably the most important task of his trainee career, especially since the…  _ it _ seems to have sedated him. He doesn’t look nearly as frightened as he has been pre- _ it _ , and when they meet up at 10 p.m. there’s no arguments. No bickering. Really — they don’t speak much to one another at all. Chan is in his own world, Jihoon in another. 

Also. Jihoon has to figure out how he wants to go about this. He knows he has a responsibility as the eldest to initiate the talk, and he has to pick his words  _ very _ carefully. Anything that sounds accusatory, or uncertain, or upset can have them back at each other’s necks — and it could be worse than ever before. If that’s possible. Which. It is. Because they’ve yet to get into an actual fist fight. 

Jihoon wants to avoid fist fights. 

But he can’t lie: ruminating over how to frame his words delicately distracts Jihoon from trying his best for filming. The final days leading up to Doomsday pass in a daze; whether they’re alone or with a group, his eyes can’t help but gravitate towards Chan. Maybe it’s because he’s letting himself think about it, since prior to  _ it _ the only thing his brain told him was  _ Chan bad, Chan bad, stay away from Chan _ , but… he isn’t  _ bad _ -looking. He can tell by Chan’s body that he’s been dancing his entire life. His legs are firm, thighs strong, and he has fantastic technique that makes him look as if he’s gliding across the studio. 

And his serious, ‘work’ face gives him an older, masculine aura, with the way his eyes narrow and jaw clenches. Then, amongst friends, he softens, relaxes, and the tough demeanor vanishes into thin air. Honestly… both concepts work for him. Another conclusion that his pervasive fog of anger hid from him. 

So. Yeah. He does his job, but not as well as he could’ve if he weren’t going through a mental crisis. 

He’s not too bothered by it, though. Jihoon’s focus isn’t on being the best vocalist or dance performer, so he works with what he has when film day rolls around, and he treats himself with a long, hot shower and a nap in his bunk bed when it’s over. His tired, sore body sinks into the mattress with a groan, and when he thinks about it, he  _ does _ feel more at ease. As if the post-orgasm bliss has stretched out along several days, decreasing over time but stubborn nonetheless. 

Funny. Jihoon never thought himself to be sexually frustrated. Yeah, he hasn’t been masturbating — doesn’t remember the last time he had a private moment to do so — but he hasn’t felt particularly horny, either. From dusk ‘till dawn, the only thing on his mind has been composing, producing music with Beomju’s assistance, and creating his portfolio to deliver to Woobin. So far he has seven songs complete and ready to go, but the ballad he wants to add to the pile is taking the most effort. It needs to be perfect, to show that Jihoon can do different genres at ease, that he can take on any assignment given to him. Beomju’s stamp of approval as he writes the lyrics has been encouraging, but there have been many crossroads along the way. 

That’s been on his mind. Not sex. Not sexual gratification. Work. The same as Chan, who’s been wound-up, muscles tight, since the day they met. They’re not so different, maybe. 

☽☽

It’s going to take at least a week for them to receive their feedback, so the lapse in work has everyone either stressed out of their minds, thankful, or spending the precious time sleeping. And it’s of no surprise to Jihoon that Chan continues to work; he spends most of his days in the dance studio he and Jihoon were given, creating his own choreographies to his favorite songs. 

That’s where Jihoon finds him. 

“Hey,” Jihoon says once he closes the door behind him. Chan has just finished a song, panting as he flicks through his playlist. His eyes flicker up in Jihoon’s direction, and then back down to his phone, clearly still lost in his thoughts and not yet registering who’s speaking to him. 

And then he looks up again. His straight fringe is damp, matted to his forehead. “Hi.” He sounds unsure. 

Okay. Jihoon, be the hyung that you’re supposed to be. He’s had adequate time to think about this. He ambles closer to where Chan is standing, but stops a decent distance away. “I, um,” he starts. No, Jihoon. No  _ um _ s. Speak confidently. “I wanted to talk about what happened.” 

Chan, panting with his phone in hand, continues to look at him. Blinks a few times. And then he does two jolts of a nod, uses his free hand to smooth his wet fringe back. “Alright.” 

Okay. Jihoon takes a silent, deep breath, tries to will away the nerves that are tightening his chest. “Okay,” he says on a sigh. “What we did… shouldn’t have happened. I.”  _ Breathe _ , Jihoon. “I had a responsibility to not let it happen. And I failed to do that. So, I’m sorry.” 

There’s a momentary pause before Chan shakes his head, slight but visible. “I don’t care about age and responsibility or whatever,” he says. “We’re both adults. I let it happen just as much as you did.” 

Not something Jihoon expected Chan to say when he hallucinated how this talk would go... An answer to that isn’t in his script. “That’s… not exactly how that works. To anybody else, I was the one that —“ 

“What anybody else thinks doesn’t matter,” Chan retorts. “We’re the only people involved.” 

Jihoon’s mouth gapes on an unspoken word. “So.” This still isn’t in the script. “What does this mean?” It’s not a question he should be asking a dongsaeng, but Chan is blatantly rejecting the roles they’re meant to assume, and Jihoon feels… vulnerable. Like he’s been removed from a job that he’d learned to perform, and now he’s out on the street, left confused and without a back-up plan. 

And, thinking about it.. that’s been a huge factor into why Chan got (gets?) under his skin so much. Chan hasn’t been treating him like he’s the oldest, like how he should respect a hyung — he’s been treating him like an equal at best, inferior at worst. Rude, disrespectful, firing Jihoon from a job he thought was secure. 

“It means,” Chan is saying. “That we don’t have to stress over it.” He hesitates, eyebrows knitting in worry. “But if this is about you feeling like I forced you to —“ 

“No.” This shuts Chan up. “I wasn’t forced. You know I wasn’t. I did it, too.” 

Silence. Jihoon watches Chan watch him, watches as his eyebrows straighten out again. 

“Okay,” Chan says in a broken whisper. 

Fuck. Where does he go from here? The script has been long forgotten. 

“What do you want me to do?” Jihoon hears himself ask. 

His breath hitches when Chan worries his own bottom lip between his teeth, thinking it over. And.  _ Please _ don’t do that. Jihoon’s never seen him do that before, and he almost wishes it remained that way. 

“Nothing,” Chan finally says, still in the whisper. “We don’t have to do anything.” 

Suddenly Jihoon’s very aware and preoccupied with the distance between them, wants to move closer and further away at the same time. And a very, very confusing heat of arousal strikes through him, threatening a very, very confused boner. Chan hasn’t looked away, so he  _ has _ to know Jihoon is blatantly staring at his mouth, where his incisors worry his bottom lip. 

He forces himself to avert his stare to the mirrors behind Chan, at his own reflection. “Um,” he says, a strained noise. “Nothing. Okay. Well.” He risks a glance at Chan, who hasn’t moved a centimeter. “Sorry to disturb.” 

Jihoon backs up a few steps, maintaining eye contact, before he turns around and walks out into the hallway. 

☽☽

Quite frankly… duo practice that night doesn’t remain ‘practice’ for very long. Soonyoung gave them a new choreography to learn in the meantime, and Chan stops Jihoon every fucking five seconds to correct his form. 

“We got this today and you’re  _ already _ an expert?” Jihoon snaps on the fifth or sixth stop. He lost track. Chan is standing beside him, demonstrating the way their legs are supposed to twirl. 

“Yeah,” Chan huffs at Jihoon’s reflection. “While  _ you’ve _ been in the music studio all day,  _ I’ve _ been here practicing. So the only person you need to get cranky at is yourself. Now watch me do this so we don’t have to stop again.” 

The peace and tranquility hasn’t lasted long, huh? 

Jihoon straightens up from his stance to frown at him. “Don’t start this again.” 

Chan widens his eyes and raises his hands as if to say  _ shoot me _ . “It’s true. I’ve been dancing and you’ve been composing. This is more for your benefit than mine. So let me help you and stop whining.” 

“Okay,” Jihoon says. “But the ‘the only person you need to get cranky at is yourself’ part was unnecessary and you know it.” 

Chan tosses his arms in disbelief, eyes rolling. “You’re the one that’s holding us up with this dumb shit. Stop getting offended at every little thing and watch me so we can move along, please?” 

Wow. It really was a temporary moment of peace. A bandaid over a gaping wound. “I’m starting to believe you like arguing,” Jihoon says to him. “You  _ know _ your passive-aggressive comments are gonna piss me off, and you still do it.” 

“You are way too easily offended for somebody that wants to work in the music industry,” Chan counters. He puts his hands on his hips, a pose that Jihoon now recognizes as Chan feeling stressed out or upset. Or both. “You know that?” 

“And you’re a brat,” Jihoon says. “Watch your tone and we won’t have to do this again.” 

They silently consider one another with matching glares. Once again, Chan is close to him, facing Jihoon as Jihoon faces the mirrors. “I told you already,” Chan replies, voice falling lower. “If you want me to shut up you have to shut me up. Otherwise I’m not gonna sto —“ 

Jihoon shoots forward, catching Chan’s parted lips in a kiss. A second of neither man moving passes before Chan responds, pressing back into the kiss, both hands immediately going up to hold Jihoon’s jaw. It’s a firm grasp, one that keeps Jihoon’s head in place as they lick into each other’s mouths. 

Jihoon grasps Chan by his waist, and he rotates his own body to pull Chan closer, chests almost touching. It’s not as rough as the first time, but it is more desperate, more confident; Chan’s gasping into the kiss, pressing further still — and Jihoon’s pushing back, licking deep and languidly, stealing every moan Chan makes. 

The heat of Jihoon’s arousal begins to stir, first in his abdomen and then spreading out, hot and resolute. That’s when Jihoon knows they need to stop. He refuses to get hard and risk another mutual hand job out where anyone can come any at any second. 

He pulls out of Chan’s grasp, removing his hands where they clutch at Chan’s waist. Jihoon looks into Chan’s eyes, ready to tell him that it’s best they not do this here — but his words get trapped in his throat when he finds Chan’s wet lips, red from the force of their kiss. And he’s staring at Jihoon like he absolutely didn’t want to stop, pupils blown wide, expression dazed. 

Yeah. Too late. Jihoon’s half-mast in his grey sweatpants. 

“You do,” Jihoon says on a harsh exhale. “Arguing turns you on.” 

Chan looks directly at Jihoon’s crotch, the damned sweatpants unforgiving. “Sounds like projection to me.” 

☽☽

They fall into a strange dynamic. The disputes aren’t nearly as frequent or hostile as before Chan kissed him for the first time, but they pop up every once in awhile. And during group practice, Chan and Jihoon don’t typically interact, so nothing is out of the ordinary in front of the others. 

Except, of course, the sharp decrease in quarrels. 

“Things really did improve,” Soonyoung walks up to Jihoon to say one day. After two hours of practice they’re given a thirty minute break to recuperate. Jihoon is standing near the other trainees, sucking down water from his bottle. “I’m impressed.” 

Jihoon smiles awkwardly around his mouthful of water. He swallows, says, “Told you. No bribes, no pretending until after filming.” 

They both take a cursory glance over at Chan, who is doing his signature boisterous laugh at something Minghao and Jongsuk are telling him. “Sooo,” Soonyoung sing-songs. He looks back at Jihoon. “Can I know the secret now?” 

Right. Soonyoung’s only weakness is impatience. Jihoon takes another swig of his water to bide time. “It’s nothing,” Jihoon eventually says. “Just… treat him like an equal.” 

“That’s the secret?” Soonyoung quirks an eyebrow up. “No way it’s that.” 

Jihoon shrugs, blasé despite the fast thrumming of his heart behind his sternum. “Basically. Long story made short.” 

“You don’t need to keep the story short. I’d love to hear all the details.” 

Jihoon picks his gym bag up and hooks it over one shoulder. “Too tired,” he blurts. “Maybe later. Bye!” And he’s off, pretends he doesn’t hear Soonyoung’s groan of disappointment. 

On another day, Jihoon sits down against the wall during their break to catch his breath, knees up and arms hanging off them. Chan walks up to him while blotting his face with the front of his own shirt, slides down the wall and sits down close enough for his shoulder to jostle Jihoon’s. 

“Look what taking dance practice more seriously does,” Chan says. “When you try to give a damn, you’re pretty good.” 

Jihoon tiredly rolls his head to narrow his eyes at Chan’s profile. “There goes the condescension. We talked about this.” 

Chan smirks back at Jihoon. “I thought the conclusion was that you’d grow thicker skin.”

“That wasn’t it and you know it.” 

“Wasn’t it? How many times have I said that the only way to shut me up is to force me.” 

It’s more obnoxious than usual since Chan knows he can’t ‘force him’ to shut up here, in front of everybody — and the shit-eating grin on Chan’s face shows that he’s thinking the exact same thing. Jihoon fumbles, almost saying sensible Korean before he thinks better of what he’s about to say and his voice fades away. 

Chan laughs at this, his head knocking back against the wall. 

“You are so annoying,” Jihoon exclaims, but there’s no bite to it, because he’s also smiling and laughing. 

Everyone in the studio stares at them like they can’t make sense of what they’re looking at. Minghao rubs at his eyes theatrically, says, “Am I going crazy, or is that Chan and Jihoon hyung laughing  _ with _ each other.” 

“We’re in a new dimension,” Baekhyun deadpans. “That must be it.” 

Then, on the weekend, some of those that are of legal age (AKA Soonyoung, Chan, Jongsuk, Minghao, Baekhyun, and Jihoon) go to a karaoke bar. Jihoon is three shots in when Soonyoung bullies him into singing one of the pop songs — a girl group that Jihoon doesn’t recognize — and Chan jumps up to join him when Soonyoung asks if anyone else wants in. But, of course, before they can even start the song they begin bickering about who should sing in a higher tone and who should harmonize in a deeper one. 

“Okay,” Baekhyun tells Minghao on the couch, laughing. “I guess we’re  _ not _ in a new dimension.” 

“It’s not that serious,” Jihoon is whining. “This is fucking karaoke, Chan. Sing in whatever tone you want.” 

“If we’re going to do something we have to do it right,” Chan argues. He’s also three shots in and is an extra argumentative drunk. “I’ll sing lower since I’m more comfortable there. Okay?” 

“ _ Whatever _ ,” Jihoon groans, and then he starts the song. 

Everything goes fine — better than fine, because Chan is actually taking it serious and Jihoon refuses to let Chan one-up him — and all the rest begin singing and dancing along, anyway, which relieves some of the initial tension. After they earn their score of 98 and relinquish the microphones to Soonyoung and Jongsuk, Chan follows Jihoon back to the couches and sits next to him when Jihoon takes a spot at the corner. 

“See what happens when you try?” Chan is teasing while he elbows Jihoon’s arm. He leans close to Jihoon’s face with a cocky, drunken smile. “Hope you learn something from this.” 

Jihoon squirms away from him, shoves Chan’s head back to where it came from with a, “Shut up.” But he can’t fight the giggle in his voice, and when Chan starts with his signature cackle, Jihoon laughs harder. It’s not been that easy to stop enabling Chan’s bullshit as of late, especially with three shots in him, and  _ especially _ because Chan’s wearing a fitted white tee-shirt, his fits arms on display, with silver dog tags, and equally-fitted dark wash jeans. He was wearing a cropped leather jacket with it, but it got hot in the room and he had to ditch it on the arm of the couch. 

Jihoon hates to admit it, but he’ll blame it on the alcohol: Chan looks more handsome than usual when he wears outdoor clothes. Chan in work out tees and leggings isn’t a bad look either, but Jihoon’s accustomed to see that version of Chan every single day. It’s not everyday he hangs out with Chan outside of the company building. 

So he’s a little more lenient tonight. And Chan’s a little more physical (outside of their private make outs in the secluded dance studio). And the others that aren’t busy singing keep stealing glances as if they’re watching something they shouldn’t, only to blatantly stare when Chan asks over and over, “But you do see it, right? What happens when you put effort in? You’ll put effort in now, right?” while grabbing Jihoon’s middle and pulling him back in every time Jihoon laughs and pries himself from Chan’s grip. 

“I’m going to punch you,” Jihoon warns, but it falls flat because he can’t stop fucking laughing. “Keep this up and I’ll do it.” 

“Admit it and I’ll stop,” Chan says. 

Jihoon pries himself away for the umpteenth time and takes that chance to hop up and scurry to the door. “Bathroom,” he blurts before grabbing the handle and pushing out into the hallway of the karaoke bar. 

He knows Chan’s going to follow him. He just knows. He walks down the hall, gets to the end where he has to turn to go to the mens’ bathroom, and — as theorized — Chan leaves the private room and starts towards Jihoon. “Don’t lie,” Chan says. “You don’t need to piss.” 

Jihoon waits against the wall, waits right up until Chan is within arm distance and then he grabs Chan by the collar, twists their bodies so Chan’s back is against the wall, and shoves him into it. And he wastes no more time getting his lips on Chan’s, kisses him like he’s eager to taste the mango margarita Chan was sipping on. Chan lets out a mix between a moan and a laugh before matching Jihoon’s vigor, his fingers pressing into Jihoon’s hip bones. 

They kiss for what feels like a suspiciously long time for the two of them to be missing, and Jihoon has to force himself to break away. Panting, he tells Chan’s red, red mouth, “I really do need to piss though.” 

And because they’re drunk, they laugh at that for an even longer while, before Jihoon stumbles to the restrooms and Chan returns to the room. 

☽☽

By the end of that week, Jihoon does the finishing touches on the ballad. Soonyoung allows him two days off from all duties (including the nightly sessions with Chan) so he can focus purely on the portfolio. He and Beomju go through every song once again; making adjustments as they see fit; fixing up sections that they didn’t notice needed fixing the last time they heard it; and finalizing the melody for the final song, the ballad. 

Jihoon’s voice is on every track. He records the final song, he and Beomju match his singing to the melody they created, and they go through it ad nauseam. And they don’t stop working until they’re both satisfied. 

He’s running on four hours of sleep divided between two days when the loose ends are tied. Flopping back into his chair, he mumbles, “I wouldn’t have been able to do this so fast without your help.”

Beomju smirks at him. It’s a very tired, sloppy smirk, but a smirk nonetheless. “Is that your way of thanking me? You’re welcome.” 

Jihoon pries one of his eyes open to regard Beomju. “Really, though. Thanks. I owe you, like, free dinner for a year.” 

“Don’t make promises until  _ after _ you’re hired as co-producer,” Beomju laughs. “You ready to send it?” 

The moment of truth. Even as tired as he is, he feels nervous, jittery. 

Jihoon nods. “Yeah. Let’s send it.” 

☽☽

Jihoon brings a sub for Chan and him to share when he meets him for their mandatory practice. It’s his first day back after his two-night excused absences, and Chan actually seems a little… happy to see Jihoon walking through the doors. 

“Hungry?” Jihoon asks. “I heard you haven’t left the studio since this morning.” 

Chan turns whatever song is playing off and nods. “I can eat.” 

They sit up against the wall and split the sub. 

“How did recording go?” Chan asks before taking a bite. Mustard oozes out and drips onto the napkin on his lap. 

Jihoon situates his own half so that the ingredients are safely tucked in. “Good. Um. It’s been sent to Woobin daepyonim as of last night.” 

Chan widens his eyes and nods while chewing. He gives a silent thumbs up with his free hand until he swallows. “Cool. You excited?” 

“Very, very nervous,” Jihoon laughs, not pleasant but not displeased, either. “This is the moment of truth, y’know.” Once his sub is how he likes it, he takes the first bite. 

“Now we’re in the same boat.” 

That’s right. Chan should be hearing back about his status by the end of the week. “Yeah,” Jihoon says. “Crazy.” 

They eat in a few minutes of silence. Jihoon is halfway through with his food when he says, “I noticed that when you stay at the studio all day you’re either very stressed, very angry, or both.” 

Chan chuckles at his remaining bite. “If I don’t move around I go stir crazy,” he tells him before popping the piece into his mouth. 

“Well.” Jihoon looks at Chan, absently watches him chew. “I hope you’re assigned to a group this time. I think you deserve it more than most here.” 

There’s no response until Chan swallows and then crumples up the dirty napkins into the foil that came with the sub. He huffs a laugh at the rolled up ball of trash in his palm, says, “Whatever happened to me not being sellable because I’m an ugly troll?” 

Jihoon’s returning eye roll is immediate. “I never called you an ugly troll. Don’t do that.” 

“You  _ did _ say I’m not sellable, though,” Chan returns. 

He lets out a troubled sigh. Give it to Chan to make even a simple word of encouragement difficult. “I say a lot of shit when I’m angry. The truth is that I have no idea why you’re still a trainee.” 

“Right,” Chan tuts. “Then I hope you get your promotion to fancy music producer or composer or whatever it’s called.” 

Jihoon snorts. “Whatever happened to you betting that I’ll either get my contract terminated or get shoved into an idol group as a glorified background dancer?” He tries for his best mocking-Chan voice. 

A hint of Chan’s boisterous laugh escapes him. He finally looks up from his trash to Jihoon. And his expression softens in a way Jihoon’s never seen directed at him before. “I also say a lot of shit when I’m angry.” 

Jihoon is stunned by the sudden change in mood and doesn’t supply an answer. Just stares. 

“Settled?” Chan’s voice falls to almost a whisper, eyebrows twitching upwards in a question. 

Jihoon nods at Chan’s mouth before he’s able to speak. “Settled.” 

“Good,” Chan says back to Jihoon’s mouth. Jihoon cups his hand around the knee of Chan’s bent leg. Chan scoots closer, stops scooting when their sides are pressed together. 

“ _ House cleaning! _ ,” somebody sing-songs at the door — somebody that is definitely Soonyoung. 

Both men immediately turn their attention to where Soonyoung’s standing and blinking slowly at them, his initial smile turning into one that appears unsure. “Hi,” Soonyoung falters. “Am I interrupting something?” 

Fuck. Jihoon’s heart starts beating so fast he swears it’s gonna burst out through his chest. 

“No.” Jihoon jumps up to his feet. Chan remains on the floor, unmoving. “We were just taking a break to eat. What’s up?” 

Soonyoung continues to stare. Now Jihoon is absolutely convinced his heart is gonna fall out and land on the floor. “Um,” Soonyoung starts. Stops. Then, “I was checking up on you guys. To make sure no one was being murdered in here. But looks like I don’t have to worry about that anymore…” 

Cool. So cool. Fantastic. Jihoon tries his damndest to not show how spooked he is on the inside, goes for the plausible deniability route and says, as steady as possible, “Told you we’re good now. Friends, even.” 

“Closer to acquaintances than friends,” Chan quips from behind Jihoon. Jihoon turns his head to shoot Chan a glare, getting a smile in return, before he turns back to Soonyoung. 

But Soonyoung is wearing the same disbelieving expression he had when Chan and Jihoon insisted everything was great while they were obviously in the middle of a fight. 

“Glad to hear it,” Soonyoung says. “Only wanted to check. I’ll see you two tomorrow morning.” 

“Have a good night,” Chan bows from the floor. 

Jihoon dumbly bows, too. 

Soonyoung returns it, then is ambling off. But not before he maintains eye contact with Jihoon for an extra, curious second. 

☽☽

“So were you guys flirting or something?” 

Despite his efforts to avoid Soonyoung, Soonyoung catches Jihoon on the hallway leading to the music studio. It’s the following day, after a night filled with Jihoon panicking instead of sleeping, and Jihoon had been successful in his efforts to go missing. Until now. 

“What?” Jihoon asks, keeps up his Play Dumb plot. “Who?” 

Soonyoung, hands in the pockets of his red Adidas jacket, narrows his eyes at Jihoon suspiciously. “You know what I mean. You and Chan.” 

“What?” Jihoon asks again. He’s lost the brain capacity to formulate complete sentences. 

But Soonyoung, the nosy fuck, is undeterred. “Was  _ that _ the secret?” He hesitates. And then he lights up with a sudden epiphany. “You guys were fighting so much because you wanted to  _ bone _ each other?” 

Jihoon’s face goes aflame, ears burning red. “ _ What _ ?” 

“You know those movies where the two people act like they hate one another, but turns out what they really wanted was to. You know.” Soonyoung pulls his hands out of the pockets to make a circle with the index and thumb finger of one, and then moves the index finger of his other hand back and forth through the circle. “That.” 

Oh my fucking god. Jihoon is going to evaporate into thin air with how hot he’s getting. “No — I —  _ what _ ? This isn’t a movie, Soonyoung.” 

“Yeah, I know that,” Soonyoung says with an eye roll. “That was an example.” He shoves his hands back into his pockets. “Seriously, Hoon. What I saw was  _ not _ normal friend behavior. Fess up or I’ll put snakes in your bed while you’re sleeping.” 

“Nothing,” Jihoon blurts. “Nothing is happening. Chan and I are friends now.” 

The evil smirk that Soonyoung makes strikes Jihoon’s chest with dread. “Friends… with benefits?” 

Jihoon is surprised he hasn’t  _ actually _ evaporated yet. He fumbles on his words for a second — and that’s all the proof Soonyoung needs.  _ Fuck _ . 

“Seriously?” Soonyoung whispers. Then, back to his normal volume, “ _ Seriously _ ?” 

The guise is up. Soonyoung is stubborn in the worst of ways. The only option left is to beg for mercy. So — “Please don’t report me,” Jihoon says in a hushed tone. “It was. I didn’t — it wasn’t meant to. I don’t know,” he sighs, rubs both his hands up his face and through his hair. 

Soonyoung starts to laugh, takes one hand back out to shove Jihoon. “ _ Report _ you? Jihoon. Who do you take me for?” 

Jihoon’s not sure how to answer this. “Um,” he staggers. “My superior?” 

“That’s what you think of me?” Soonyoung has to gall to look wounded. He slaps a palm to his own chest. “Only your  _ superior _ ?” 

Aaaand he fucks it up anyway. “I ‘dunno,” Jihoon tries. “I see you as a friend too, but you’re also my superior and kinda sorta control my fate? And you’re a mandatory reporter?  _ Right _ ?” 

Soonyoung shakes off the hurt to do that supportive shoulder-squeeze thing he likes to do, quieting Jihoon. “Dude,” Soonyoung says. “Even if we weren’t friends, I don’t care about that. I’m not telling anybody anything.” 

Oh? Oh. Okay. 

“The only thing I’d like for you two to do,” Soonyoung persists. “Is to be careful. I was the one who walked through those doors, but it could’ve been anybody.” 

Jihoon deflates, averts his gaze towards the door of the studio. “Right.” 

“Keep it private, and so will I.” Soonyoung gives his shoulder another squeeze before removing his grip. “Also. We’re friends before anything else. And that may not be professional or whatever, but it’s not like I’m a super serious, professional guy anyways.” 

The relief that washes over Jihoon cools down the heat to his cheeks, ears. “Thanks. Sorry.” 

“Anytime,” Soonyoung answers like it’s obvious. “Don’t work too hard in there, and I’ll catch you later.” 

He starts to go, but freezes after a couple of steps. “Oh.” He turns back around to Jihoon. “Also. Woobin daepyonim should be getting back to you tomorrow afternoon. Everyone, actually. But don’t tell anybody I told you.” 

Jihoon can’t believe he forgot all about that. He was so preoccupied with not having a panic attack in his bed and going into respiratory arrest at the idea of getting his contract terminated that the portfolio was completely forgotten. Just like that, his nerves are back. “Thanks for letting me know,” he croaks. 

“No prob. See ya.” 

Soonyoung walks off. Jihoon doesn’t move from his spot in the hallway until Soonyoung disappears around the corner. 

* * *

* * *

Jihoon meets Chan in their secluded dance studio. Practically theirs, anyway. 

It’s the following day, in the evening, and Jihoon is walking in to Chan standing, idle, in the middle of the floor, a manilla folder in his hands. Chan catches him entering through the reflection in the mirrors and turns around to face him.

“Hey,” Jihoon says. 

Chan’s lips pull into a smile. “Hi.” 

Jihoon busies his hands with fixing his black tee shirt on his torso, despite it not needing any fixing. “So. Is this a goodbye for now?” 

Silence. Chan is holding the folder in both hands, bending it with his tight grasp. Shoulders shifting up in a shrug, he asks, “Is it?” 

“Well.” Jihoon stops messing with his shirt. “Not right away? 

“And that means?” 

“I need you to say it first,” Jihoon says. “Please.” 

Chan considers Jihoon for a moment before he nods. “Okay.” 

Jihoon holds his breath and waits. And waits. And waits. Chan is still staring at him, unblinking, and Jihoon’s body is beginning to beg for him to breathe. But he resists, irrationally afraid that if he gives in it’s going to cause a shift in the universe, or fate, or somehow fuck this up for them. For Chan. 

So he waits. And only when tears start to well in Chan’s eyes does he take a sharp inhale. 

“Idol?” It’s said so quietly that if it weren’t for the silence in the studio it wouldn’t have been heard. 

A tear falls loose from Chan’s left eye just as his mouth twists into another smile. “Yeah.” Then, even quieter: “Producer?” 

Jihoon breaks into a smile of his own. “Yeah.” 

Chan laughs his relief. 

Then his face crumples. And more tears are falling loose. And he has one hand desperately trying to wipe them away. “So much for a perpetual trainee,” he manages to bite out in a whimper. 

Jihoon laughs, his own eyes burning with tears. “So much for a two-year contract termination.”

☽☽ 

**Author's Note:**

> im on twitter if you wanna chat!


End file.
